


Bloodline

by laEsmeralda



Series: Linnod [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5855578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Visiting Frodo in the Shire after the war, Legolas rediscovers some long-buried questions and finds his answers in Frodo's love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodline

**Author's Note:**

> The nonconsensual warning pertains to the OC/Legolas portion of the story.

A soft voice wafts up his body to him. "May I touch you here, my love?"

Eager for the gentle hands to proceed, he smiles and sighs, "You never need ask me, Frodo."

"I will always ask you, Legolas, for you are not mine until you give yourself freely, each moment we are together."

The overwhelming love he feels in response, the desire to be taken in total trust, rises within him so fast that he loses his breath. Frodo's fingers have entered him many times, learning exactly what takes him out of himself. But until this moment, Legolas has not desired that which he is about to request. None of his partners have ever caused him to want it, including Aragorn. He is suddenly resolved.

"I want you to _take_ me." 

His lover's eyes are startled. "Do you mean..."

"I want you inside me."

Frodo is unsure, flustered into stating the obvious. "We have never..." He clears his throat and rephrases, "I know that you don't like it." 

Legolas utters what he himself finds to be a surprising truth. "I believe that I would like everything you could possibly do to me."

The effect of these words on Frodo is fast and tangible. Legolas bends forward to taste him, eliciting a long moan. Assured that there is now more than enough wetness from both of them to serve, Legolas falls back and parts his knees, reaching out a graceful foot to encourage Frodo forward. 

Hesitantly, Frodo crawls up the long body, holding to Legolas' eyes for guidance, until their thighs meet. "I've never done this. I don't want to... not do it well."

"Not even been with a lass?" Legolas asks with a grin, amazed that he has never asked Frodo about this. He receives a shake of the head in return. Legolas allows his breath to escape with a hiss of pleasure. The thought of watching Frodo enjoy this is nearly unbearable. He reaches to help, to guide him. "I do not think it is possible, Frodo, for you not to do it well." 

He relaxes, deeply, as he fits Frodo to him, then with both hands behind, pulls him in, causing a smooth thrust. Frodo's little cry of surprise makes Legolas shudder. "It is different, is it not?" he manages to ask. "Not the same at all as my mouth."

"Oh." Frodo shifts his weight to his arms and falters. Legolas catches him with a hand on his chest, bracing him up. "No..." Frodo says, "it isn't the same."

Legolas opens his legs wider. Despite some initial discomfort, he is buzzing with arousal. Frodo's touch reaches far into him, seeming to stroke his spine. "Mmm. And you can thrust as hard as you want. No teeth to catch you." 

Frodo whimpers. "Stop talking, Legolas, for a moment."

"What is amiss?" Legolas smiles, mischievous, shifting his knees in and then out, clasping Frodo within him more tightly.

Frodo's brow wrinkles with worry. "You will cause me to spend too soon." 

Legolas writhes once, a long, undulating movement, drawing his arms up over his head to clutch the pillow. "There is no 'too soon,' you can recover to try it again. We have all night."

"Ohh. I shall have to take you at your word." The bright eyes slide closed, and Frodo manages but a few hard thrusts before he loses himself with loud cries. 

Legolas savors the throbs and pulses, his own breath panting in rhythm. "Yes!" he whispers as Frodo falls against his chest.

He has lain beneath many lovers, opened his body to them. And he has always maintained a distance from the act. For this reason, he has never made the offer to one he has truly loved--until now. In less than five minutes, in an unmasterful and unguarded interchange, this beloved one has broken that barrier. He wraps his arms around Frodo. 

"Why?" Frodo murmurs against his skin.

"Because you are you."

"Why now?"

"Because you would always ask permission even though you are deep within me already."

"It turns out I am not good at it," Frodo's smile carries into his voice.

"Ah. That was but a sample." Legolas debates with himself as to what more to say. "I believe I lasted only a single minute my first time."

"You?" Frodo sounds shocked.

Legolas chuckles. "Indeed."

"Who was it?" Frodo strokes the broad chest with the tips of his fingers.

"The master from whom I learned higher meditation."

"The Maia?"

"Yes. There was a particularly difficult lesson in stillness. When I achieved it, he was rather beside himself. Of course, I soon humbled myself before him."

"But you were an elfling then."

"Nearly. Though many times elder to you and already schooled in restraint. There are some experiences into which one should fling oneself and leave discipline for later." Legolas caresses the smooth back, feeling each bump of the spine, each curved shoulder blade. "Amazing. You have not softened."

"Nay," breathes Frodo. "Your beauty will not allow it."

"Then, if you are ready, let us try this again."

"I am ready." Frodo lifts his flushed face, damp with perspiration. There is a glow in his eyes, his pupils larger than usual. "Are you?" 

The challenge is thinly veiled, and Legolas smiles that Frodo has already found his footing in the new experience. He restrains himself from saying words that might abbreviate events again.

The elf draws back his legs and grabs each behind the knee. Frodo places a hand on the exposed underside of each thigh and presses down. Legolas relaxes into the pressure, his muscles strong and flexible.

"You should see yourself," Frodo says, full voice. "You would fall in love."

"I am already in love," chides Legolas. 

"Mmm," Frodo closes his eyes as his hips begin to move. "No one I could have imagined could break my heart into pieces as you do. Happy, tiny pieces." 

Legolas arches to meet him, his eyes answering. 

Frodo's breath catches as he sinks deeper. He thrusts in more of a circular motion, and Legolas cries out sharply. 

"Aie, yes!" He releases one leg and reaches for himself then. 

With that, Frodo cannot confuse the outburst with pain, and a wave of pleasure rolls over him. "Oh yes, do that." Moving confidently now, he thrusts again and again, repeating the sweep of his hips. "Feel me," he commands. Legolas moans in response. 

As the sight before him grows more and more wanton, Legolas slow and melting, his head tossing on the pillow, his face and body becoming a continuous molten flow of silver and white and blue, Frodo gathers his strength to withstand the vision. 

"Harder, Frodo, please," Legolas begs. 

Frodo props his chest on the tucked-back legs and braces himself on the mattress. Before long, he is moving hard enough to rock the bed against the wall. 

The song is sudden and almost snarling in its ferocity. Legolas grips Frodo so hard as the convulsions rip through him that Frodo gasps and fights for control. Frodo's eyes widen as the first pulse of fluid arcs between them and wets the plaster of the wall. He is lost then, again, unable to hold back a moment longer. 

They lie still in the aftermath, a tangle of limbs, unwilling to disturb a hair. They are glued together with Frodo's sweat and Legolas' pleasure. A night-flower scent mingles with the green of new branches and the coppery tang of spent love. They would each speak, formulate words of appreciation and love, but they have spoken these things through one another's bodies, and sleep overtakes them before more can be said.  
*******

In the dark, hands grab him and bind his eyes and arms. He cannot move to fight back, and soon, his wrists bleed from the rough tethers. For some reason, his voice thickens and he cannot shout. 

Then, he is gagged, the sweat-stained leather noisome. It is horse sweat that he tastes, and he recognizes the reins of his favorite steed.

The other smells around him are elven. No one speaks. He is hauled up by his wrists, painfully caught behind him. Hands in his hair push his head forward, attempting to overbalance him, but he holds steady. He tries to listen for any clue, but there is only breath. He counts three of them.

He is naked. This is wrong, he sleeps now in his clothing, ready to be called for duty at any time. He shakes his head to clear it, but it does not clear.

They are strong, and he cannot seem to struggle much against them. His heart is pounding with surprise, fear, and anger.

"Prince, hah!" Someone spits copiously on him. He is forced to his knees and kicked forward. As he falls, his stomach connects with another hard body, and he finds himself flung across a person crouched on hands and knees. 

"I promised you it would come to this." The familiar voice behind him causes him to harden instantly. 

The rush to excitement is vivid, and as his body responds completely, he realizes he is dreaming. The lucidity should allow him to wake, but he does not. It should allow him to change the course of the dream, to avoid reliving the memory. He cannot. He is trapped in his younger self.

Now, he strains in earnest, his sounds of protest muffled through the gag. Strong hands slap his bare rump with force. "You consented when I took your pact in my bedchamber. You consented tonight when you took the potion from my hand. Still, I ask you again. Do you wish me to stop? I will not ask further on it, my beauty." 

The absolute command of this voice is impossible to resist. He shakes his head. 

A cruel laugh sounds and is dampened by the trees that surround them. "You are of your word, that is certain. 'Suck me like that again, Talas, and I will do _anything_ you command.'" The imitation of him is perfect and drips with venom. "I warned you not to make such promises lightly."

The young elf flushes with humiliation as the two others, unknown to him, laugh loudly.

"Not so proud now, king's son, are we?" The one beneath him barks.

"All that tedious lovemaking... it was excellent training for this moment. Tolerable, reasonably pleasant, though you tried my patience at times. But you are responsive to my will in a heartbeat as a result. You will be well worth the trouble in a few minutes." 

Devastating. The affection, the ecstasy, the embarrassed happiness of the last weeks vanishes as the sound of Talas' voice lets him know in no uncertain terms that the feelings were never mutual. He closes his eyes under the blindfold, his head hangs lower.

The one who spat on him moves to his right and he hears the sound of something wet being smoothed on flesh. The body under him writhes slightly. "Hurry!" hisses the one beneath him. There are two sets of groans as the one to his right complies, accompanied by the sound of skin sliding on skin.

"The potion is potent," purrs Talas, "do not rush past it." Hair slides over Legolas' shoulders as Talas draws close to his ear. "This will be the last time for us, and I will have what you have refused me thus far." 

Tears are sliding freely now, wetting the blindfold. So stupid not to see this coming, had his father not warned him? He had been thoroughly seduced by this charismatic stranger. Such beautiful song and poetry--how could the sweet words come from such a poisoned source?

Drugged or not, he would express consent. There is no sense in thinking otherwise. Talas has more control over his body and mind to this point than he does himself. 

He feels Talas move away, hears him walk around to stand before him, and his head is yanked back by the hair. Then, the gag is ripped from his mouth. "You know what to do. Do it well." His mouth covers the hardness presented to him, and he does exactly what he has learned. He does it well. 

"Valar, but you have a marvelous mouth!" Talas thrusts into him without restraint, without care. The body braced beneath him is undulating, the elf next to him is rocking into the other as though life itself depends upon the act.

Suddenly, he feels an inexplicable and horrible urge to be mounted. He gasps. Talas hears him.

"Ah, at last. Slower to be moved than most, but not impervious. Tell me, what is it that you want?" He has slowed to a languid pace, his palm pressed against the vulnerable throat. 

The pale hair glints in the moonlight as the prince shakes his head. Talas continues, "If you do not tell me, I think I will allow Maglan here to deal with you instead." The elf beneath him moans at the thought, shifting beneath.

In response, the other redoubles his effort, the shock of their meeting nearly dislodging him. "If you even think of touching him, Maglan, I will slit your throat," the unnamed elf rasps.

"No," gasps the other, "I am yours. Only yours."

"Irresistible, is it not?" asks Talas. "The roots of this tree are twisted as is its power. What say you?" Legolas nods and moans past pulsing flesh. Talas pulls himself from his mouth. "What say you in words?"

"Take me!" he says, his voice not sounding like his own. He counts, slowly, waiting. His knees are in agony, his thighs trembling, his arms aching from the bindings and the strain. He has not long to wait. He is entered without ceremony, without even the kindness of a hand on his hip. It matters not. He is badly hurt, and angry, and cannot breathe, and yet the feeling that rips through him makes his heart thunder against his ribs. He moans again, a strangled sound.

Talas shouts his pleasure to the night air at the first thrust, and as he does, Maglan loses himself in a frenzy of movement, somehow managing to bear the weight of the others through it. 

"You are mine!" says Talas. "Always, a part of you--this pleasure, will be mine!" Then, the voice growls, "You have been my plaything, Legolas. And now, with that knowledge, you are nothing." 

He strains to form a word, to negate the power, to claim himself for himself first. He cannot. The pleasure is too great. He is taken through fifty thrusts, each a lesson in humility as he cannot control his own response. 

"Say it!" Talas commands. The prince bites his lips, resisting. Talas plants one foot on the earth, shifting from both knees to half-crouching, and wraps one hand repeatedly in the long mane. "Do not make me injure you, youngling, say it!"

"I am nothing!" He shouts in response. 

Next, the nameless elf howls as he reaches his peak, grabbing his shoulder, fingers digging deep as he pours himself into Maglan.

"What are you?" hisses Talas, "I could not hear you."

"Nothing," he sobs. He is pierced to the core and it does not matter. The pleasure of it is singing along every sinew, every nerve. The hand of his first male lover, the one he adored until this quarter hour gone by, reaches for him with harshness, and he does not care. He rocks into the touch and screams as he comes, Talas' semen burning into him.

He bounds to his feet, some thirteen thousand moons to the wiser, pulse hammering, stomach wet with his own spending. His sobbing breath stops in his throat as the real night meets his senses in the safety and warmth of Bag End. The fire in the stove burns low, casting a dim light in the room.

"What is wrong!" Frodo is startled from sleep by his beloved's cry and immediately reaches for him. 

But Legolas is already out of reach. He paces, back and forth before the bed, his thoughts racing. He has not had this dream for many years, and he has not consciously tapped this memory for many more. The fear, and disgust, and pleasure are on him now, all together, and he cannot ignore the truth of them.

Frodo's hand drops to the bed and into a pool of cooling fluid. He smiles. "Oh! It was... a good dream?"

Legolas shakes his head. "A very bad one." His low voice breaks and he begins to sob, covering his face. 

This terrifies Frodo, for Legolas rarely cries, but the hobbit forces himself to remain calm. He crawls to the edge of the bed and reaches for small towels, always kept handy. First, he wipes away the wetness on the bed and lays a piece of fresh linen over the spot. Then, he ever so gently reaches out and grasps Legolas' hip, stilling his pacing. "Shhh," he soothes, drying away the apparently unwanted seed with the towel. Then, he kneels up and strokes the beloved hands but does not urge them away from his lover's face. "Would it help to tell me?"

"I... I would like to, Frodo, but I do not think I can put words to it. Yet. Right now."

Frodo's intuition is uncanny. "Does it have anything to do with... with what we did tonight?"

Legolas lets his hands fall away, and Frodo wipes the moisture from his cheeks. He thinks for a long minute. "Perhaps. It has not come to me after... such an act before. Although it has never been for me as it was with you tonight." His hands come to rest on Frodo's shoulders. "If the act and the dream are related, it is a strange association, for I cannot wait for you to take me again, I enjoyed it so." He caresses the soft shoulders, trying to reassure his lover. "I will meditate on it tomorrow. For now, I need... I do not know what I need."

"I do," replies Frodo, scrambling back on the bed. "Come here and let me hold you. I will kiss you to sleep." 

The power of Frodo's ability to protect has nothing to do with his size. Soon, Legolas feels completely enveloped in a cocoon of safety. Frodo's lips cover his, and the mouth loves him, so softly, that he is lulled and not brought to heat. Within minutes, he sleeps, and Frodo leaves the kiss, snuggling close and watching over him a bit longer until the warmth draws him back to slumber as well.  
*******

Legolas poses the questions for meditation. Upon reflection, he does not need to ask why the dream has come to him now--it is the vulnerability that he has allowed himself to feel with Frodo. As he had with his master so many years before, he formulates a different set of queries. What had driven Talas to harm him? Why had he so eagerly followed that path, even with his father's warning? He had always trusted his father.

Lying down on his back, he stills himself. He guides his thoughts toward Thranduil, hoping that his father is not also mediating. He would have this be a private inquiry for now.

The fire flickers low in his father's study, but the lamps still burn high. The king sits in his favorite chair, the one least like the throne he occupies during lengthy court days. He has abandoned the stiffer robes of his station for his favorite flowing silks. A large white cat sprawls asleep in his lap underneath the scroll being studied.

From the doorway, Legolas debates. These peaceful moments are too few for Thranduil, and a difficult conversation would not be desired. He watches the light play on his father's glossy hair, the color of deep shale in the riverbed, of the dark steel tips of arrows, of the bark of the elder trees. The white skin of his strong features takes on the gold of the fire. 

Even nearly full grown, Legolas feels slight and ethereal next to his father's imposing physical presence. On the practice field and in maneuvers with the guard and troops, he believes himself invisible, drifting along beside the taller, broader elf. Running with him, matching pace for pace, he does hear not his own heart, but his father's, thrumming with the power of the woodlands.

People remark on the striking resemblance of their faces and eyes, but Legolas knows he will never match Thranduil's majesty. His mother is too strongly in him, fine-boned and slender of limb. People say aptly that Celonas had been the river that entwined Thranduil's mountain. 

But then, Legolas is the youngest child and is not expected to command the armies or beget the next generation. He is more free to be quiet and gentle, to focus on the more solitary arts and forms of combat that interest him most.

"Come, Legolas," Thranduil calls softly without looking up right away.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Father." 

Thranduil laughs lightly, "I believe I called for you, my son." He sets the scroll aside and absentmindedly caresses the cat which rolls in his lap to better receive his ministrations. Despite the laughter, as always, Thranduil is commanding and remote. At last, he raises his eyes and the trouble resonating in his mind may be acknowledged there. Brown eyes mirror back the recognition of it, and dark silver brows convey worry. "Sit." 

Legolas wonders yet again why his father's voice always makes him quiver like a cornered rabbit. Thranduil commands with stillness, without demand. He intimidates without physical force and without raising his voice. 

Thranduil continues to stroke the purring cat, and Legolas realizes, oddly, that he cannot recall the last time his father touched him. He gazes at the slender fingers that had first taught him the bow, and thinks perhaps that was the last time, long ago, on the archery field. Come to think on it, he it has been that long since he has seen his father touch any person except in formal gestures or a task. But with his horses and cats, he is always gentle and affectionate. 

"Legolas, you know that I am pleased with your progress in your studies and your practices. As usual, I can find no fault, you are an obedient and diligent member of my household. I would wish to withhold nothing of happiness from you. You have earned it."

"Thank you, Father, but I have so much yet to accomplish."

With a single inclination of his head, Thranduil agrees. "We all do. To which study will you turn next?"

A nearly identical set of dark brows draw together. "I had been thinking that the higher arts of stillness and introspection would be suitable for my next devotion."

"You are already advanced. This will require an extraordinary teacher."

"Do you disapprove?"

Thranduil stifles an indulgent smile. With one exception, he could not disapprove of his precious son's choices. "Not at all. I have a teacher in mind, but it will take time to make the arrangements. I simply wanted to be certain of your commitment."

"I am always committed to what I undertake." It is said without hubris.

"Ah, you have struck upon what troubles me tonight." With a final sensual brush of his hand, Thranduil scoops the now boneless cat off his lap and sets it protesting on the rug. It continues to rub itself on his ankles, hoping to be restored to his lap.

Legolas waits.

"So it is to be the bard?" His father's eyes search his almost sorrowfully.

"I... I am not certain what..."

"There is no need to equivocate with me. You are considering a bond with him." Legolas does not deny it. Thranduil sighs. "I am afraid that I cannot approve. And I feel I must explain. You know why your mother left?"

"We have never spoken of it, Father."

"But you know. Your brothers have doubtless given you the official version. General infidelity on my part."

"Yes."

"I am aware that you have been with a number of women already. Mistress Mirinnen came to me and asked for reassignment three years ago, feeling that she had failed you, and I knew then that you were already powerful."

Legolas flushes. And remains silent.

"You have the same innate ability that I do, to draw others to you in this way. It is a power of the body and spirit that can lead to great pleasure and to utter ruin. Such power brings responsibility. I have finally learned, at many times your age, to channel its strength into my work for our people. But it was not always so. It is an unbalancing gift that we have, Legolas, and I have grown worried for you of late."

"There is no need, Father."

"Please, allow me to clarify. I do not find fault with you. Some come to you unwarily, like moths to a flame. You are gentle and reasoned, so I do not worry for them. Some come to you to bask in the light for a time. For them, you are an untainted happiness. Yet others will come to you in jealousy or need, and will try to extinguish the light or steal it for their own."

"Talas is not like that." Legolas realizes too late that he had answered all his father's questions in one sentence. "And I would not have thought you concerned about gender."

Thranduil shakes his head. "It is not that he is male. That concerns me not a bit in concept. Though, given how we think of our bodies, symbolically, he can hurt you in ways that a female cannot, and that may be of concern. It remains to be seen."

Legolas debates as to how much to say. Though distant in some ways, Thranduil always encourages frank discussion. "He dotes on me, Father, he is always kind. And he has not pressed me for... more than I willingly give."

The king appraises him slowly, marking the beauty, the poise, the subtle change from boyishness to early adulthood. The youth's resemblance to his mother in spirit always makes Thranduil's heart ache, even as he sees his own face and capacity for fierceness reflected back to him. "I have seen you in his presence. He has command over you. You diminish yourself to please him, and I do not care for it. I do not trust him. I believe that he is using your body to harm your spirit." 

"He would not do that. I know what I am doing."

Thranduil's eyes cloud, changing to a dark silver, and he is silent in memory for a few moments. "I have spoken such words, and I speak from experience now. You are too open, too loving. You must guard yourself better, Legolas, as I have learned to do. It is necessary to your self preservation."

"I do not wish to approach the world closed to it." The unspoken words resonate in the room as well, _As you do._

Admiration and love shine for a moment in Thranduil's eyes, and Legolas thinks with shock that his father might move to touch him. But he does not. "I confess, my son, that I love that quality and that intention with which you walk this world. I wish it were the best path." Then the darkness returns to his face. "But it is folly. You know I will not forbid you. You make your own choices and reap your own results. I simply could not bear to see you go on without warning you. For what it is worth."

They are silent for several minutes as Legolas considers the situation. "I appreciate your candor, Father. I simply disagree. There is nothing in Talas' person, comportment, the people with whom he surrounds himself, to suggest such a flaw." Legolas does not mention the purity of voice, the softness of touch. Talas loves to immerse himself in beauty. And he brings Legolas euphoria.

"He is a complicated person of layers. I cannot see all of them, I only know that there are things buried within him that smell dangerous to me. People are not always what they seem, even to the most discerning."

"Father, why do you not touch me any more?" Legolas is surprised that this is the question that burns, that rises to the surface in response to his father's lecture. "Anyone, really, but I... I am your son."

Thranduil's hand grips the chair arm, the other clenches in his lap.

"I took a vow, Legolas, when your mother left me. I hurt her so badly with my... appetites. Celonas was a fine queen, a loving and eager partner." Thranduil looks away. "She was my match, and I squandered her with my lack of control. No matter how wonderful, she was never enough for me. It took her leaving for me to realize that I must change my ways for my own good. For the good of my people and my children."

Legolas thinks on his lessons. "There is a universe of difference between simple affection and arousal. Why separate yourself entirely?"

"Not entirely, but nearly." For a moment, a raw pain is evident on his father's face, and Legolas is compelled to fall to his knees and lay his head in Thranduil's lap, wrapping his arms around his father's waist.

"I cannot bear for you to be alone, Papa. It seems so unnecessary!" Legolas reverts to the affectionate term of childhood. 

Thranduil stiffens, and then relents, his hands falling to Legolas' hair, stroking the silvery strands and the soft skin of his face beneath. "It is for a time, only, Legolas. A long time, and yet in our years, a short time."

"But why?" Tears wash down Legolas' cheeks. The feel of his father's hands on him has been so missed that he weeps at its return.

"I have spent these last years learning to manage the power I have, to contain it within firm boundaries. Those boundaries are blurred for me. It is a flaw that you did not inherit, thank the Valar, though you, and only you among your siblings, have inherited my particular energy." Thranduil considers carefully his next words and whether this child is ready to hear them.

"In my selfishness, I took your mother's brother to bed. Not to mention half the ladies in the household. She was more than humiliated."

Legolas receives this news calmly. It is worse than he was told but explains a great deal. "Perhaps you have overcompensated for your weakness, Papa. Have you considered going to Cirthian?" Legolas thinks of the help he has received in calming his own powerful urges. It was Cirthian who suggested further training in meditation and the sexual arts. He rather suspects that the meditation master would disagree with the idea of blocking or fighting the instincts.

Thranduil's voice becomes strained. "Cirthian was unable to help me. And it grew worse. Until at last I looked upon one of my sons with lust." Legolas' head snaps up, and he sees that his father's eyes are nearly blue with turmoil. "It was not you. Fortunately, you are too much like me to rouse my sickness." He attempts a half-hearted smile. "I will say no more than that."

It does not matter. Legolas sees the truth in a flash of insight. And knows he will carry that truth in absolute confidence. It would be better for his brother to resent their father for being cold and distant, equally so to all of them. 

"I never acted on it, not even a little. I would never harm any of my children, at least I have that limit." He brushes tears from Legolas' face. "But the most severe self-discipline was required. I could not stop showing him affection and continue with the rest of you. It would have seemed, ironically enough, that I disfavor him. I could not accept his punishment for my own flaw. Besides, I have found it is quieter to live my life in a solitary fashion. The fires are easier to bank when fuel is not readily available."

A swirl of confused emotions prevents any words in response for a time. This then, is why his father does not like Talas. Thranduil sees him as a predator, like himself. He views Legolas as not in control of his own urges, like himself. For the first time, Legolas does not trust his father's insight. It is a crushing moment, and he hides it. He gathers his father's fingers in his own.

"I understand your fear, Papa. Perhaps I will be hurt. But I do not think so."

Thranduil's eyes are both sorrowful and hopeful, his voice rumbles with emotion. Most of all, he is surprised that his revelations have not caused Legolas to recoil. Instead, his son is clinging tighter. "I hope you are right, beloved one. But if not, I hope you will come to me. I promise to help you without judging. As you, remarkably, have done for me." He strokes a high cheekbone with a thumb. "I am grateful for this moment. I have missed you."

Legolas wraps his arms tight around his father again. "There should always be one person in this world, Papa, from whom we need not hide." He does not say that for him, that person is Talas and not Thranduil.  
******

In the warm sun of morning, the Legolas of present time accepts the answer to the second question first. He had misunderstood his father, and the lack of Thranduil's touch had sent him into danger. He had starved for his father's love when he had it all along. And he had disregarded his father's advice, having seen the deep flaw in the person he had always regarded as perfect. 

The first question posed, as usual, is more difficult. He had worked hard to forgive Talas, to accept the lessons of their encounters, to let go of him. He now realizes why his master had looked so disturbed during those sessions. Legolas had not found the deep understanding though he extended the forgiveness.

Legolas sinks further into meditation and allows himself to drift back. He again seeks the connection to his father, sensing a nexus with the truth yet to be found. Instead, he finds himself back on his knees, then cast to the ground when Talas is finished.

When they cut him loose and leave him, he makes his way unsteadily to the stable. It takes him a long time. He awakens the stable boy and asks him for leggings and a shirt, swearing him to silence. Although it is late, he cannot risk going to the baths, where he most desperately wants to go. He cannot not bear to see anyone. He cannot not bear to go to his room alone. His brothers will not understand. 

There is only one place to go.

He waves the guards back, though their shock at seeing his disheveled state cannot be concealed. Still intoxicated, in pain, and exhausted in every fiber, he finally finds himself before the thick door. He does not think to knock, and of course, the door is not locked. It swings open without a creak. He is but two or three paces into the room when strong arms come around him and at last, he allows himself to fall. 

Oddly, looking back, he can see as well through his father's eyes and emotions. Thranduil looks at him closely. Legolas' face is bruised and scratched but without serious damage. It is the damage to Legolas' heart that pierces him immediately upon contact with his son's body, and Thranduil cries out with it. 

"I am sorry, Papa, that I did not see," he whispers.

Thranduil carries him to the bed, easily, like he is a child again, and strips away the borrowed clothing, cursing under his breath. Legolas lacks the sense of self to be embarrassed as his father checks him closely for wounds. He is beyond caring as tears slide uncontrolled from his eyes. He feels a sheet tossed over him, and then Thranduil steps away to pound on the door that joins his chamber to that of his steward. 

The door opens with remarkable speed. "Call for hot water for the tub, and ask the healer for restoration herbs for the twisted roots. She will know what I mean. Answer only what is necessary for her to prescribe. I do not want her here." Legolas cannot not hear the other voice. "My youngest, if she must know that. No one is to come in here but you. Do you understand, Daeras?" He shuts the door again.

"By the Valar, I will hunt him down and tear him to bits with my own hands." The quiet fury in Thranduil's voice is torture.

"No. Papa. It was my fault. I... I told him I would do anything. I took the potion." The next words are hard won through choked-back sobs. "I consented. Do not make him feel more powerful by chasing him. It is already bad enough."

"You gave your heart. Your lovely heart. You trusted. But that is not a fault. I am sorry I made you feel so." Thranduil climbs in behind him and gathers him close. Legolas gasps at the abrupt movement. "Is your body hurt? Do not hide it, I know that he took you." Thranduil's calm tone is almost frightening as Legolas knows the temper being held at bay. 

"The pain is not so much to bear, Papa, though it is strong. But I am humiliated. The things I said!" Legolas shivers with chill, though he can feel the heat of his father's body trying to warm him. "That I asked for..."

"Shh. The drug is wearing off. I have taken this vile stuff. I know what it does. You were not yourself."

"But I took it."

Thranduil is quiet for a moment, holding Legolas tight to him. "Why did you take it?"

"He told me it would bring me closer to myself. It would bring us closer."

"You had no reason to mistrust him. And strangely, he did not lie."

"You warned me."

"Ah, but you have reason now to mistrust my instincts. I understand that." 

The depth of his father's insight shames him further. "Why would he do this?"

"If you can bear it, Legolas, tell me what was said. And done."

Dully, and between tears, Legolas relates the night as best he can recall. 

Thranduil holds him throughout and is very still. At the end of the telling, Thranduil's lips touch the back of his neck. "I will give prayers of thanks tomorrow that you came to me. That took strength that only you of my sons would have."

"I could not bear not to, Papa. Even if you hate me for it."

"Hate you?" A hand clasps over Legolas' heart. "Dearest child, I love you always. Listen to me. This is important. There are warriors who believe that eating of their enemy's bodies after battle will give them the strength of the enemy. I think Talas is one of those warriors. But it is not the flesh that he eats."

Through the haze of his pain, Legolas is puzzled. "He is a bard, not a warrior."

"So his voice has told you. Look deeper."

Legolas thinks. He recalls Talas' easy handling of his staff, that he thought nothing of twirling Legolas' knife as they disrobed, that his tales in song recounted many of the battles for Middle Earth. "But why am I the enemy?"

"You are not. _We_ are. Our bloodline. Our heartline."

There is a knock on the adjoining door. "Come." Thranduil does not let go his embrace.

Daeras enters, quietly closing the door behind. "I have brought the herbs, My Lord, and the water follows. How shall we bring it?" His normally lighthearted voice is soft and afraid. 

"Pull the curtains around the bed and bid them hurry. He grows colder by the moment."

Thranduil spends the remainder of the night holding fast to Legolas as the thin body purges itself in the privy. He bathes him and gives him cup after cup of restorative tea, allowing no one else to tend him. By morning, Legolas sleeps in exhaustion, and will wake in his father's protective arms to have no memory of their conversation until a meditation centuries later.

When he opens his eyes to the morning air of the Shire, Legolas breathes the answer that has come to him at last. The answer that might have undone him had it come but a few years earlier. "One of Sauron's elves." 

A henchman of Annatar, a bard of the Lord of Gifts. It puzzles him, and he speaks aloud to better understand his own thoughts. "Why would he not pursue the eldest son, the heir? Why not lower the next king of Mirkwood before he ever reached the throne, make him vulnerable, exploit Father's lust for him? Why me? I was nothing." His own words echo back to him from the night with Talas. But at last he knows them to be false, and another answer falls into place.

"I was not nothing. Father trusted me, always. He confided in me. He sent me to the Council. I volunteered to go with Frodo." His mind reels with dangers now seen and unknown at the time. Galadriel looked into his heart. He had been touched, no, taken--no, he had _given_ of himself to Sauron's bidding for a night. And she let him go with the Ring. 

He wishes Galadriel were here. Or Gandalf. Did they know? Could they have known? He craves to speak to his father. But these conversations are not immediately possible. He rises at last and goes to find Frodo.  
******

Frodo regards him seriously above a steaming cup of tea, the hobbit antidote for nearly all ills. "I trusted you absolutely the first moment I met you."

Legolas' brow curls as he ponders. "Why, do you suppose?"

Frodo shrugs. "By then, I did not easily trust. I only know that in your presence, I felt safe. Not as though nothing could harm me but that you would not. That night I came to you in Lórien, I did marvel that it had no pull for you at all. From that moment on, I never worried that you would take the Ring."

"It would have affected me had I possessed it. My kind created it. It simply would have taken me longer to fall under its spell." He thinks a moment. "But trust or no, at the river, you left even me."

"Aragorn needed you more, even though he did not know it." Frodo looks wistful. "And we could never have snuck you into Mordor. Your glow would have drawn every evil thing in that country."

"Hah! I do not attract evil, you know," Legolas laughs, "and I am quite stealthy."

"I know. I did not want any of you to come to harm through the Ring on my account. Sam could not be dissuaded. And in the end, it did harm him, though it would not have been destroyed but for him."

"You did not say goodbye. I would have understood. I would have let you go." Legolas' smile is sad in memory of the day, of Aragorn's words. "But I would have kissed you."

"I could not bear it." Frodo reaches across the table to touch his hand and changes the subject. "I find myself furious that you were so hurt in your youth. I cannot clear my mind of it, Legolas."

"It was a long time ago. And now I understand. It helps me reconcile it."

"What ever happened to him?" 

"I do not know. I would venture a guess that my father had him tracked and killed." Legolas looks deeply troubled. "I shall have to ask him when I next have an opportunity." He thinks in silence for several minutes. "I want you to meet my father, though I know not how to achieve it." He does not speak the feeling that plagues him most, that there is no time.

The large grin across the table tells him his words are a gift. "I am flattered, though I cannot imagine how the King would regard me. I think he would envision someone more like Elessar for his son. Perhaps you should keep me a secret."

Legolas straightens indignantly. "Do not speak of yourself so. I am ever proud of you, and I have already acknowledged you before all."

Frodo melts with the words. He feels himself respond with arousal to Legolas' defense of their love.

"Thranduil is wise. He sees true to the heart of a person. He would spy the greatness of you in a breath. My father has already embraced your family. And do you not understand that you too have become Elf-Friend? Though I have had naught of my mother for many years, Celonas will be your fast friend when you meet her in the West." The pain of speaking of their parting stops his words. Legolas sets his cup carefully on the table as if the stoneware would break but for his vigilance. He opens his arms. "Come to me."

Frodo does, without hesitation.

When later, Frodo lies sated in the afternoon sun streaming through wide-flung shutters, he forgets the stab and the sting, the emptiness left in the Ring's passing, "Legolas, my love, I have hit upon an antidote for the poison of your nightmare." Fingers delve through his hair, caressing, and he sighs into the touch. 

"It seems you are the antidote," replies the low voice, "and I have taken a hearty dose today."

"Mmmm. But I will doze now in peace and you will not. Instead, you will lie here and think on dark things. You need the soil of the Shire within your grasp, the love of the green and flowering things that worship your every step. Sam is in the garden. Go to him." 

Legolas is immediately taken by the idea. He kisses Frodo fervently, and rises from the bed to dress. 

Frodo smiles and allows himself to fall asleep.

Sam is filling a window box with violas, humming a favorite tune, feeling the music of the Shire in his bones. He glances up as Legolas approaches, and smiles his welcome.

"I could use some elvish talent with the next bit, if you're so inclined. This plant over here doesn't like where I put her, and I'm not sure why."

"Put me to work."

For a while, they tend the garden together in silence. Then, Sam reaches for the pitcher of tea and fills his glass, proffering it to Legolas first. "Share?" He is shy.

Legolas nods and takes a drink, passing the glass back to Sam. "You are a generous soul, Sam, I am sorry to disturb your home." 

"You are so good for him," Sam replies, "And fine company in your own right. Rosie and I don't mind at all." His smile turns mischievous, "Though, it is a bit more noisy about here lately."

The elf laughs. "Sam, you surprise me!" he teases, taking the glass back and sipping. As he expected, Sam blushes furiously. Legolas busies himself with mulching the new transplant. "If it bothers you, I will endeavor to be more quiet."

"Actually, I think Frodo is the louder of you," Sam ventures, "except for the singing part. Which is always beautiful. No, I wouldn't want you to stifle yourselves."

Legolas senses more to come, and waits without interjecting.

"At first, Rosie and I didn't know what to say or where to look, and we would laugh. Now, it's something... to look forward to." Sam's cheeks are flaming pink.

"Ah, it has become contagious," smiles Legolas, still careful not to look at Sam. "Elvish ways have come to corrupt the sweet Shire."

Sam laughs. "A change for the better if you ask me, long as we live at the end of the row a fair distance from the neighbors." He sits back on his heels and risks a glance at the elf. "It isn't just your gardening skills that could bear learning from." 

Legolas brushes the dirt from his fingers and answers with care. "I think the most important thing is not what you do, but the intention with which you do it. Something I have learned from Frodo. He is the teacher, not I." He looks up then, and Sam's blush has faded. Instead, there is unabashed admiration in his face.

"I wish the two of you could stay together, that he were not so ill." Sam clasps the elf's shoulder with a firm squeeze. "I wish the world were different. I wish it with my whole heart."

Legolas covers the hand with his own. "So do I, Sam, so do I." They share a moment of sorrow for the losses to come. "I try to enjoy the present and not dwell on the future."

Sam sighs. "Well, then, let's go in. At the present, my stomach tells me it's time for afternoon tea. And there's supper to look to. Wonder when Rosie will get back from her folks?"

"You are always working. I will prepare this meal. "

Sam's eyes widen. "Is there no end to your talents?" he asks with a grin.

There is a glint of mischief in the elf's smile. "I did not say that it would be good," he replies.

"Just so long as there's no lembas involved, begging your pardon, Legolas."

Legolas slaps Sam on the back as they laugh aloud and scramble to their feet.

Frodo curls around his pillow, unwilling yet to rise. He smiles at the laughter coming in loud from the garden and then muffling as Sam and Legolas enter the house. Closing his eyes against the future, Frodo nestles into the love that fills his home and heart, and falls back asleep.  


*******

Author's Note: Before you click to the next chapter, _The Path of Sun and Moon_ , I recommend a detour through _Arwen's Book of Secrets_ , beginning with _The Twin's Tale_. Arwen's observations reveal more of Legolas' history and his relationships with Aragorn and with Frodo. She provides context for what happens in the next chapter of _Linnod_.


End file.
